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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937343">Children of the Mountain-Father</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryelftwink/pseuds/angryelftwink'>angryelftwink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Zevraholics OC-tober [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Origins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Avvar Culture and Customs, Avvar and dwarves, Crisis of Faith, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:34:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryelftwink/pseuds/angryelftwink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Angharad has never known the right way to be a dwarf, or if he can really call himself one anymore. There are lots of dwarves the Shaperate won't teach you about.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Zevraholics OC-tober [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954384</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Children of the Mountain-Father</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The biggest problem with staying in Denerim was that Alistair refused to face formal occasions alone.</p><p>Angharad stared off into space, letting his mind wander. Humans, he had found out recently, didn’t always remember their dreams—unlike Warden dreams, dreams of the Archdemon and the song of the Blight.</p><p>Or not. He’d woken uneasy. Was it just usual fear, or did he still dream? What would it mean if he did? Weisshaupt had sent no dwarves when the Wardens had come, that horrible feast of lies. Alistair said his dreams had calmed, but he hadn’t been the one… the thought lived in the back of his mind, that perhaps the Archdemon’s soul had touched him. He didn’t know. He hardly remembered anything Morrigan had told him.</p><p>His skin squirmed. After everything, it was far too easy to feel yourself Tainted. Unclean. He had defied the very purpose of the Joining, after all, and now he was simply a thing that carried Blight inside it. If the song haunted his dreams, was he not then more darkspawn than dwarf?</p><p>“And you are Blightslayer!”</p><p>He jolted to his senses. Before him stood a small Avvar woman (a head or so taller than him), gold ribboned braids streaming down her back. She clasped a hand to her chest and bowed, a massive grin on her painted face. The facepaint reminded him of Legion tattoos, but in vibrant berry reds and purples.</p><p>“I am Kristina Odasdotten, skald of Ramshorn Hold, chosen to bring greetings and thanks to the new king of the cityfolk.” She bounced slightly. “Greetings to you, dwarfson of Orzammar. Our peoples are long brothers in arms.”</p><p>“I’m, uh…” She didn’t need an introduction. “Brothers in arms?”</p><p>“Many of our people trace their lineage yet to Hendir and Scaea. Do your skalds not tell the tales of Luthias Dwarfson?”</p><p>“Luthias <em>who</em>?” He turned his head, but Alistair seemed absorbed in a discussion about… beasts? Holding them? Sounded like Alistair.</p><p>“He was borne back to Orzammar for the funerary rites.” Kristina blinked. “Did you truly not know that many Avvar have been joined to your people, and likewise of ours?”</p><p>“I…” He tugged on his sleeves. “My kind are not educated. I can read no carvings, nor did any Shaper tell me the Memories. I never heard of the Avvar until I came to Ferelden.”</p><p>“Your people do not teach the stories?” She choked on disbelief. “Has Orzammar forgotten her sons and daughters among the Avvar?”</p><p>“Sons and daughters among… Some of you are <em>dwarves</em>? Surface dwarves?”</p><p>“Of course!” She scoffed, tossing her braids. “In the way of Tyrdda Bright-Axe, many of us once wed dwarves for their honor and might. Though the alliance has been forgotten by Orzammar, many Avvar come from the Stone.”</p><p>“And Orzammar used to… approve?”</p><p>“Not every time. The princess Scaea fled with her husband, Luthias Dwarfson, but he was greatly beloved by Orzammar. It was Scaea who taught the Avvar battle wrath, to fight as the dwarven warriors.”</p><p>“The berserkers.” Angharad blinked, then blinked again, as Kristina grinned at him. “No. I didn’t know about any of this.”</p><p>“There are many of our people who believe you shall bring rebirth to the old alliance. Come with me, Angharad Blightslayer O Brosca, and hear the old tales. The Avvar welcome you to be known as our friend, for you have saved our lands from the Blight.” She gestured to an empty hallway. “Let me tell you of Tyrdda Bright-Axe and Hendir. Let me tell you of Luthias Dwarfson. I was sent to learn your tales, but first, let me teach you our tales of the dwarves.”</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” he told Alistair.</p><p>“What?” Alistair blinked, turning away from the group of Avvar. “All right, but you’re coming with me to catch a hold-beast.”</p><p>“What’s a… Never mind.” He turned, following Kristina down into the empty hall.</p><p>Stories of other dwarves who had left Orzammar behind not in disgrace, but because they’d wanted to.</p><p>Then there were stories of the Avvar spirits.</p><p>She told him of the Mountain-Father, guardian of both the Avvar and the dwarves. Of the Lady of the Skies, who tells the future and takes the dead. Of Hakkon Wintersbreath, who protects the Avvar from the cold and stands with worthy warriors.</p><p>“There are gods everywhere?” he asked her.</p><p>“Aye.” Kristina shrugged. “There must be a god of this place, though the cityfolk have forgotten it. Your people know only the Mountain-Father?”</p><p>“We… call him the Stone, and the Stone is not… the Stone is a thing, not a him. It just is. It is the ancestors, joined to the Stone, who guide us.” He cast his gaze away. “Guide them. Not dwarves like me, who abandon the Stone. They would laugh at the idea the Stone and the Mountain-Father are the same. The Stone could not guide your people, on the surface.”</p><p>“So we are not remembered by your people.”</p><p>“Not by the Shaperate.”</p><p>Angharad paused. This one afternoon had made more sense than his whole life in Orzammar. A world alive with gods guiding you, just as real as the Stone, but each one different. The world was not steady like Stone and certain like Ancestors, nor was it dead and empty, abandoned by its Maker.</p><p>It was alive, and it was not one thing, but many.</p><p>“I think…” He paused, the worlds heavy on his tongue. Who was he, to presume himself so different?</p><p>But wasn’t the point here that he wasn’t different at all—only forgotten?</p><p>“I think,” Angharad said, “maybe I remembered.”</p>
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